


Cold, Cold Heart

by CoffeeMinx



Series: The Courier From Vault 3 [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, Manual Clitoral Stimulation, PTSD Courier, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Swearing, Turned out Much Fluffier than I Expected, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voice Kink, sex with an audience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-18 23:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11885004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeMinx/pseuds/CoffeeMinx
Summary: Place: Fortification HillTime: The final battle for the Dam approaches.Circumstances: The Courier has pledged her loyalty to the Legion.Problem: The Legion are a bunch of sick fucks.Note: This series operates under observable New Vegas game canon when it comes to the treatment of women—no written lore, no Van Buren (i.e. no priestesses, etc).Also Note:  As she’s a Very Good Karma Courier, please assume all the companions have their best endings and any quests not directly tied to the Legion game-route were completed as Lawful Good as possible.Also Also Note: I’ve switched the order ofArizona Killer(which has been successfully completed just before this story starts) andEt Tumor, Brute?so Caesar’s operation is now the last thing to happen before the assault on the Dam.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is the result of a prompt and my brain going CHALLENGE ACCEPTED even though I have tons of other things I really should be doing. I am such trash.

Vulpes Inculta stood his ground, ramrod straight, dark eyebrows drawn together, his blue irises drilling into Lanius and the gang of Praetorian guards gathered behind the Legate.

“You think to stop me?” Lanius jeered. “Nineteen tribes I’ve crushed beneath my heel. You fight with mere words and deceit.”

“You have yet to see me fight, Legatus.”

The Monster of the East growled at Vulpes, literally growled, and moved closer, trying to use his massive bulk to bully Vulpes into retreating. Vulpes growled back, never moving, the dark intensity in his eyes never wavering. 

If her future weren’t on the line, Courier thought this might almost be amusing.

They stood outside Caesar’s tent near a large wooden platform—a stage—that had been constructed since the last time she’d visited the Fort. The way it extended over the edge of the tall hill, providing a view of vast rows of tents and milling soldiers below, she’d figured Caesar intended to address his troops from there. Some stirring pre-battle exhortations and whatnot. 

Now it appeared much more sinister.

Lanius was insisting she accompany him onto that stage. And several of his Praetorian guards held bedrolls and rope restraints. 

Vulpes said something in Latin and turned his back on Lanius, strolling to her side as if the Legate behind him were no more threat than a molerat. 

Lanius recognized the insult. His fists clenched.

“I told him you were my Lord’s, and that mighty Caesar doesn’t share his toys,” Vulpes said when he once again stood beside her, his voice low.

She nodded, still watching Lanius's scowl. “He didn’t like it.”

“No. But I will fight to the death to preserve you for Caesar’s personal use, and he knows it.” 

Vulpes had not touched her since Vault 3. 

He had helped her with some of the more distasteful tasks Caesar had required of her, but he always maintained a professional distance, disappearing once their mission was complete. 

When questioned, he said only that none but Caesar deserved her. And promptly changed the subject.

“So… that's it, then? You really don’t want me?” she asked, keeping her eye on Lanius. He was declaiming to his Praetorians, and the growing crowd of legionaries, in Latin. It sounded fiery and unfriendly. “You want Caesar to have me?”

A muscle in Vulpes’ jaw twitched. “Great Caesar can provide you a level of protection and luxury otherwise unattainable. Your sons would be his heirs. You would be consort to a god, mother to a nation.”

“Can’t I just be an advisor or something?”

“Not as a woman.” 

“You guys are some sick fucks.”

“Cease swearing, Courier.”

“I’ll swear if I fucking want to.”

“It won’t make your life any easier.”

“Fuck off with that fuckery,” she scoffed, careful to keep her voice quieter than Lanius's. “I’m a woman in the Legion. My life will never be even _close_ to easy.”

“I assumed you hoped to be the exception, that you believed the fate of other women in the Legion would not affect you.”

“No, I knew it would affect me. I just didn’t care. I wanted Motor-Runner dead. There was no _‘after’_ that for me.” She paused before adding sadly, “Think I kinda figured if Motor-Runner didn’t get me, Boone would.”

“What is this damned noise?” Caesar stumbled out of his tent, one hand holding the side of his head. He glared at Lanius.

Two legionaries shuffled past Caesar, carrying a table, heading for the stage.

“Your _pet fox_ ," Lanius sneered the words. "Defies your orders, Lord Caesar. You said today the Legion would witness this woman of the West learning her place. I stand ready to perform such duty. That tame spy begs to show her mercy.” 

“I merely remind the Legatus of the concept of honor. I know how forgetful barbarians can be. _Ex-_ barbarians." With a sardonic smile, Vulpes bowed, pretending to correct himself. He continued, "The Legion honors their alliances, and the Courier is our ally.”

The thunk and squeak of the legionaries setting up the table in the center of the platform provided an inadvertent emphasis to Vulpes’ statement.

“She is a vessel for our seed, as are all women. Nothing more,” Lanius proclaimed, playing to his audience. “The final battle looms. Our men need to see how the best the Mojave has to offer is as nothing to the Legion, a mere whore to be used by superior men.” 

“Superior my ass,” muttered the Courier.

“My Lord,” Vulpes began, his tone calm, almost neutral compared to Lanius's impassioned shouts. “This woman is not only the best of the Mojave, she has no equal in spirit, skills, and intelligence in any of our lands.”

“That's only because y’all don’t let women—“

“Stop commenting,” Vulpes hissed at her. He addressed Caesar once more. “Plus she is Vault-born, with all the health and fertility that entails. You need an heir. Think of the sons you could get from her.”

Caesar appeared to consider it, then grabbed his head with a groan. “Dammit! I don’t have time for this shit.”

Lanius stepped forward and pointed dramatically at the Courier. “Long have the men witnessed the insolence of this unnatural female.” His voice chilled her soul. “She needs to be taught a lesson, and she must be seen learning that lesson.” 

Before Vulpes could respond, Caesar declared, “I agree.” 

“But, my Lord—“

Caesar turned to Vulpes. “You excel at teaching lessons to profligates, don’t you, Inculta?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Then the honor is yours.” Caesar turned and disappeared back inside his tent.

A roar went up from the men surrounding them—jubilation, excitement, surprise, with a smattering of jealous protest. Courier noted only how Vulpes’ face froze. 

Then he strode after Caesar, also disappearing into the tent.

Hands grabbed Courier from behind and she was dragged, twisting and kicking, in the opposite direction.


	2. Chapter 2

The Courier sat on the bedroll-covered table in the middle of the stage, dressed only in a slave girl’s shift, her wrists and ankles bound with thick rope, and idly wondered if she could hop down, toss herself off the edge and plummet to the valley below before the legionaries stationed at the four corners of the platform could stop her. 

Boots thumped on the stage’s stairs. Recognizing Vulpes’ step as the sounds crossed toward the table, she twisted to watch his approach. His face was stone. Even more than it usually was, if that were possible. 

He strode to stand in front of her, his body shielding her from the view of those below. She gnawed her bottom lip. This was not going to be good news.

“You’re going to have to play along with whatever I am forced to do.” Vulpes kept his voice low, so the nearby legionaries wouldn’t hear.

She nodded. “But it will be _you_ , right? Just you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fine. Whatever keeps the rest of them away from me.” It had been difficult enough to endure the Praetorians _watching_ when they forced her to change into slave clothing. She didn’t want any of them touching her. 

“You do not understand. Caesar has….” He paused, and when he resumed speaking it was with the air of someone quoting another. “ _Promised them a show_.”

He drew his machete from his belt and carefully cut her wrists free.

“A show…?” She let the question hang in the hot, dry air. She didn’t really want the answer.

“I must ‘rape’ you.” He made quotation marks in the air with his forefingers as he said the word rape. 

“”Rape?’” She imitated his hand gestures.

Vulpes’ lips curled in a grim smile. “My Lord has gifted me the honor of demonstrating Legion power and dominance over the infamous Courier. Through coerced copulation.”

“Yeah, I got that part. I’m waiting to hear you explain your use of air quotes.”

He cocked his head to the side. “It won’t be rape proper since I’m warning you ahead of time, so you may give your permission.”

“Oh for fuck's sake.” She rolled her eyes. “Just so you know, there is no blanket, irrevocable permission where sex is concerned. Later, you and I are going to have a little chat about how consent works.”

“I don’t see how this is an issue.”

“And _that right there_ is why we’re going to have a little chat.”


	3. Chapter 3

Vulpes knelt and set about freeing the Courier’s ankles. “I… What I must do to you… will have to seem… unpleasant.”

“Under the circumstances, pretty sure it’s going to _be_ unpleasant,” Courier muttered.

Vulpes kept talking as if she had not interrupted. “Caesar suspects me of having a… weakness for you. If the lesson I teach is deemed insufficient, you will be handed over to Lanius.” He finished his task and stood. 

Knees hanging over the edge of the table, Courier swung her legs back and forth, on either side of Vulpes, who stood between her now parted knees.

“Lanius blinds all women given him,” Vulpes continued. “And the mutilation of your eyes would be but the start of your injuries.” He brushed his fingertips across the top of her left knee in a small, sort of petting motion. “His name translates as ‘butcher.’”

“Well that's not creepy at all.” She tried to laugh but it sounded too high and hollow. She swallowed. “So we give them a good show. That’s all there is to it.”

“You need not fear. I am the greatest of Caesar’s Frumentarii. I can dissemble.”

“And that reassures me because…?”

“I know how to sell a strike as being more vicious than it is. I know how to feign enjoyment or pain. You, on the other hand, will have to actually hit me when you resist. Do not worry. I shall find your struggles… arousing.”

“Ha! It's a good thing you’re pretty, you otherwise thoroughly disturbing person.”

“I am a thoroughly disturbing person. To most.” For a moment, as he gazed at her, his eyes softened. Only for a moment. Then they froze to ice once more. “Will you be able to act as if I am causing you pain? Your life may depend on it.”

She snorted derisively. “In case you forgot, I’m female. Women have to put up with Wasteland men on a daily basis. I can act the shit out of any scenario you can imagine.”

She ended the sentence with a defiant nod of her head, making Vulpes wonder which of them she was trying to convince. 

A drum beat started, ominous, rising up from the valley below. 

Courier made a tiny, quavering sound in her throat.

Vulpes ignored both sounds, his eyes shifting to look behind her, toward Caesar's tent. “We will be starting soon.”

“Right. Okay. I can do this. Oh, our safeword is going to be _‘yes,’_ because that’s definitely something I won’t be saying otherwise.”

“Safeword?”

“When… while we’re….”

“Courier, this is not the time to be delicate.”

She stuck out her tongue at him. “While you’re… giving me your lesson! Ta-da! I _was_ able to be delicate! Score one for me. Anyhow, if I say ‘yes,’ like I’m enjoying it, that actually means I want you to immediately stop whatever it is you’re doing and do something else.”

“A code. I understand.”

“That way you don't have to worry what my limits are, when we're acting. If you would have worried.”

“I would have worried.” He spoke with little inflection, which was typical when he was speaking as himself, rather than putting on an act. Funny how she had come to recognize that flat seductive hiss as sincerity. 

A rush of affection for him relaxed her enough to smile. “Thanks.”

“And you needn't worry whether you are hurting me when you struggle.”

“Because you're scary that way?” she teased.

His mouth twisted in an expression somewhere between a grin and an grimace. “In a sense. I know myself well enough to understand I find that arousing. And I must become aroused or I will fail you and you will be given to Lanius.”

“Ah." She puffed out her cheeks then released her breath in a rush. "Yeah. Sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“I should have realized—this isn't going to be a picnic for you either. I didn’t think. I’m such a—“

“Courier.”

“Hmm?”

“You're allowed to think of your own welfare first in this situation. It is specifically your welfare Caesar wishes to destroy.”

“Normally I’d be horrified by that thought, but at the moment I’m just like, ‘yay, one less thing to feel guilty about.’” She sighed. “How do you always know the right thing to say? No, strike that. You’re the greatest of Caesar’s Frumentarii. Of course you know what to say. What women want to hear. What psychologically damaged women want to hear.”

“Not damaged,” he corrected quietly. “A survivor.”

Suddenly behind them the Praetorians were shouting their hails to Caesar, along with much stamping and the squeak and jingle of movement—probably salutes. 

“Think we’re about to find out if that’s true,” Courier said.


	4. Chapter 4

She probably should have told Vulpes she was a virgin. 

Although, would it make any difference, really? He might not even be able to tell. Could men tell? 

No, it was better for him not to know. He had enough to deal with. No sense adding more stress to this horror show. Because, no matter what, he must complete this ‘lesson,’ or she’d be abandoned to Lanius’s non-existent mercy. 

Yes, it was better to just ignore the whole issue. 

_Denial. Breakfast of champions._

The Praetorians, honored with front row seats directly behind the stage, in front of Caesar’s tent, were boisterously laughing, talking, and drinking while waiting for the ‘fun’ to begin. She wished she understood more than a few words of their language. She wondered what they drank. Legionaries couldn’t drink alcohol. 

It would be funny if it were something like milk.

Suddenly the Praetorians were all shouting their hails to Caesar. She twisted to see him standing proudly in front of his tent, looking significantly better than earlier. The cheat had obviously taken some chems for the pain of his headache. Profligate medicine was outlawed for everyone in the Legion except its leader. Hypocrite. 

He approached the stage and noticed her back was toward him.

“Turn her sideways,” Caesar ordered Vulpes. “So both we and the men below may enjoy the full panorama.”

Sharp pain stabbed her scalp as Vulpes started dragging her into position by her hair.

She shrieked in pain, not entirely acting, and grasped his wrist, trying to ease the excruciating pull on her tender scalp. She should have said her hair was off-limits because this really hurt.

“Put her on her back, so we can watch her limbs flail,” suggested Lanius.

“And you can look into her eyes,” Caesar added, gazing significantly at Vulpes as he spoke.

Courier shouted that they were all a bunch of limp-dicked, spiteful little idiots until Vulpes pretended to slap her across the face. She snapped her jaw shut and turned her head with the blow just in time.

Then Vulpes addressed their audience, gracefully alternating between Caesar behind the stage and the men below. When he pointed at her, his voice rumbled menacingly, Latin words piling upon each other in swift succession.

It sounded beautiful, sexy even, though the words were probably something along the lines of _blah blah profligate whore blah blah blah_.

In response to his speech, the legionaries took to jeering at her and shouting praise of the Legion in turns. As a rally, it was going quite well. Courier was thinking they might actually get to skip the whole symbolic rape scene, when Caesar stood and shouted, “Inculta! Are you going to fuck her or talk her to death?”

“There’s a choice?" Courier yelled. "I vote for more talking! Who’s with me?” She was pleased to be able to pull off a merry laugh at the end. Anything to keep from being the victim quite yet.

Meanwhile, Vulpes had positioned himself at her knees as they hung over the edge of the table. Before she could decide if she should part them voluntarily, or if that would look too eager, he grasped her thigh, thumb digging into the inside flesh and hitting a nerve or something that made her yelp and her whole body flinch. Instinctively trying to move away from the pain, she spread her thighs and he stepped between them, forcing her legs wider.

His other hand went to her throat. She whimpered, highly aware of his warm palm pressing against her windpipe just enough to make her feel it when she swallowed, not enough to affect her breathing.

“I am going to use you as I please,” he announced, more to the audience than to her. “And you will take it.”

If it weren’t for the cheers in the background, this would have been… sorta hot. 

Did that make her a terrible person?

“I’m going to _ruin_ you,” he continued, and she shivered. His voice was meant for this. She could listen to him all day long, but _threats_ … He excelled at threats. “And you’re going to submit, and secretly love it, as all profligate women do.”

Well, he was certainly telling the men of the Legion what they wanted to hear. Each time he paused, they bayed for her blood.

“The Legion conquers everything. You will fall as the NCR will fall.” He gave her a little push and she took the hint, letting herself fall back onto the bedroll which barely cushioned the harsh tabletop.

“And in your surrender, you will scream my name.”

She lay still and looked up at him. A long way up. He seemed impossibly tall from this angle, standing over her, a towering menace in a position that emphasized her powerlessness. 

At that thought, a pulse of liquid rushed toward the ache tightening inside her. That was wrong, surely. Something was very wrong with her. Although she did—desperately—want him to be her first, she did not want it to be like this. Her body should not be blithely preparing itself for sex. 

Metal jingled. He was unbuckling his belt with deliberate, brutal motions. Leather whisked as he separated the sheathed machete from his belt, then he momentarily disappeared from her view, crouching to swiftly place the weapon upon the stage—possibly below her table. Standing, he said something in Latin and snapped his belt toward the table’s edge. It cracked the air like a shot.

“Don’t you dare hit me with that!” she yelled, voice deepened with anger, as she tried to scramble away. She immediately regretted it. That wasn’t how she was supposed to be playing the scene. But no one had said anything about her getting beaten up. 

He snarled at her and whipped the belt so it hit the bedroll beside her waist. She squealed before she realized it hadn’t touched her. Just as well, because the legionaries cheered. From their angle they obviously couldn’t tell the blow hadn’t connected. He snapped it by her curled legs and she cried out in fear again. _So far, so good._

He grasped her near ankle and pulled her back down. She whimpered “No” and “Please” while surreptitiously helping him get herself back in position. They were back on track and the sooner this was over, the better.

“Wait.” That was Caesar’s voice. 

She stopped, panicked, her eyes seeking Vulpes’. Did Caesar know? Had he caught on to their act? Vulpes was looking toward Caesar so she couldn’t catch his expression.

“I can’t see anything,” Caesar whined. “Lanius, get those slave rags off her.”

For a heart clenching moment, as Lanius marched up onto the platform, she doubted her strength to go through with this.

Lanius went to stand at the other end of the table, behind her head, where he was upside down to her, and drew a knife. She raised her arms to protect herself but he grabbed her wrists with one giant, meaty hand.

She decided to scream.

And she kept screaming as he used his knife to start a tear at the neckline of her shift, then employed brute strength to rip the slave rags from her body.

The Mojave sun blazed on her newly revealed and unprotected skin. Or maybe that was shame. 

She was naked. She’d almost never been fully naked. Not even by herself. And here she was in front of thousands....

The Legionaries and Praetorians were stamping or clapping or something. Her eyes teared up even though she didn’t feel like crying.

Lanius released her wrists and she immediately clawed for his mask, hoping to knock it off, her one abiding thought to humiliate him as much as he had humiliated her.

A sharp pain at her breast made her freeze. Lanius was pressing his knife to the pink of her nipple. The fingers of his other hand caught her breast, and started squeezing her cruelly.

“Do not resist your place, Woman of the West. Or I will cut these off.” He prodded her nipple with the point and a bead of red blood blossomed over her pink skin.

Another hand appeared in her field of vision. Clean, long fingers that closed around Lanius’s knife hand and then Vulpes was there, performing a deft strike that relied on surprise and trickery but disarmed Lanius nonetheless.

“I enjoy resistance,” Vulpes said, casting the knife into the stage so hard it stuck into the wood with a loud thwack. “And she is _mine_ , Legatus.” His voice had lowered to little more than an intense hiss. “Remember _your_ place…” Vulpes’ smile as he paused was almost vicious. “…Is over there.” He nodded toward the seats.

Lanius swore quietly at him. Their audience was still hooting and cheering over Vulpes’ assurance he liked resistance, since that meant they would witness her future struggles. No one beyond the platform would have heard his subsequent implied insult, so Lanius could not lash out without dishonor. And even if he didn’t care how dishonorable a seemingly unprovoked attack would be, he could not pick up his knife without bending over and giving Vulpes the advantage. Nor could he draw his huge and heavy Blade of the East before Vulpes could have that same knife out of the wood and into Lanius's gut. 

So Lanius just swore, before turning to Caesar to ask, “Have you further orders, My Lord?"

Caesar gestured for him to return and sit. “Let’s get the sex started already. Before my damn headache comes back.”

Lanius saluted and walked to his seat. That left only Vulpes to obey his leader’s command.

She couldn’t look at him as he strode back to position himself between her thighs, stroking her side as he passed, like one would comfort a skittish brahmin. She was naked and this was hideous and…. She clapped her palms over her squeezed-shut eyes.

“Make her look,” called Caesar. “Make her see your eyes.”

That fucker had a fixation.

The table creaked, which meant Vulpes was leaning forward. His fingers closed about her wrists and she let him pull her arms away to pin them to the table on either side of her head. Her eyes remained shut.

She could feel his quick breath ghost across her face. Her heart pounded like it wanted out of her chest and her mouth felt filled with cotton.

"Look at me," Vulpes said. 

She had to, she knew she did. Caesar wanted it this way. She had to play the scene. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes.

And was somewhat surprised to see Vulpes. That it was _him_. Looking normal. Mostly. But not monstrous. Not… whatever she had been fearing.

Bless Caesar for being a misogynistic old sadist. He thought Vulpes would be weakened by seeing her. He’d never know how much stronger she felt for seeing Vulpes.

Vulpes must have read her expression, because a grin fleetingly touched the corners of his mouth. _“Es fortis, amata mea.”_

 _Fortis_ meant brave or valiant or something like that. So it was a compliment along those lines. An overstatement, but this was something _she_ wanted to hear.

“Damn straight,” she whispered, flashing a smile at him. They could do this.

_Showtime._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Vulpes actually says to her is: “You are strong, my beloved.” She doesn't understand the endearment, though. So _we_ know, but she doesn't. :)


	5. Chapter 5

Vulpes bit along Courier’s jawline, not hard enough to draw blood, and was rewarded with a series of whimpers that sent pleasant chills down his spine. 

She undulated beneath him, legs languorously stretching and arms sinuously writhing, enough like resistance that their audience cheered and whistled. Enough like resistance that his cock was so hard he ached. 

He’d managed to shed most of his gear, while making it look as if he did so for his own comfort, not concern over scraping or cutting her bared skin. The slight friction as they struggled together felt delicious. 

That hadn’t been why he’d lain atop her, originally. With his body covering hers, he could shield most of her from the others’ view. That was important. She’d been pink with embarrassment, and her comfort and her feelings were important. 

These fledgling concerns were strange to him. As was the dawning realization that two wildly conflicting sets of instincts warred within him.

He wanted to protect her. A fierce urge to cradle her tight in his arms and keep her safe burned in his blood. 

He also wanted to ravage her, bring her to her knees, relish her cries for mercy, and take pleasure in her screams of pain. 

One of those reactions was wrong, was clearly _not_ what the Legion instilled in its men. So why he didn’t simply dismiss the traitorous other was a mystery left best unexamined. 

Hoping to move to the final act of their performance, his hand snaked down to touch her, to brush her clit and play with her nether lips. A welcoming wetness bathed his fingers. He didn’t want to force her to enjoy this, but lubrication would make sex less painful for her. For both of them, really. 

He pulled back, standing between her legs, with her at the edge of the table, lined up and entered her.

Or not, as it happened. 

Her flesh did not part and allow him access. Instead she cried out and abruptly attempted to squirm away. That entertained the spectators but made penetrating her more difficult. 

Trying to get this over for her quicker, he jerked her hips back into place and slammed against her. 

A sharp inhalation—more of an imploded scream—was the only sound she made before she started fighting as though death itself touched her. 

All in terrified—and slightly terrifying—absolute silence, she thrashed and hit and scratched for his eyes. Their audience loved it, but would become suspicious soon if he didn't practice some self-defense, which meant she could get herself injured.

He fell forward, catching himself with his elbows to either side of her so she wouldn’t bear his full weight, but effectively pinning her down and stilling most of her thrashing. 

His mouth closed on her throat, sucking a bruise into her fragile skin, before he reached her ear and murmured, “ _Paenitet me, amata_. Tell me what to do.” 

She didn’t answer, just kept squirming beneath him, fighting as best she could, breathing in staccato gasps. 

Shifting his head, his cheek brushed hers. Her skin was damp. He glanced at her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut but her eyelashes were wet and tears gushed down her cheeks. 

“You’re not in the Vault. You’re not alone. I’m here. You're safe,” he murmured against her temple. Except she wasn't safe. He was the one hurting her. And the fact they weren’t alone was part of the problem. Normally he was better at spinning lies. He tried something else. “This is temporary.” 

Although it wouldn’t be if Caesar thought his lesson insufficient. 

Surreptitiously withdrawing, he banged his hip against the table, making the table legs skid slightly with a shriek and bang against the stage. It looked impressive. The men cheered. 

Bending to her again, he pressed his mouth against the fluttering pulse in her neck and said her name, adding, “Temporary. Over soon.” 

He repeated her name, quietly, calmly, holding her tight, while continuing the charade, knocking the table as cover. 

Each bang brought whoops from the audience, which covered his words of reassurance. “So proud of you, _amata_. You can survive anything. _Fortior es quam ullus homo hic._ ”

At some point her hands had switched from pummeling his back to gripping him. With a long sigh now, her shallow breaths began to deepen.

He shifted to look into her face again. Her eyes focused on his. “Yes. I’m okay. Sorry. Keep going.”

He bit her collarbone, selling the move with a snarl and baring of teeth, to hide the fact that he barely touched her. Then he turned his face into her throat and whispered, “Yes?” 

“Oh, not that yes, no,” she said, and he was surprised by how calm she sounded. Swiftly she covered it with wild, howled pleas for “No more, no more!”

Lining himself up again, he pushed into her. She yelped and her fingers scrabbled at the table but she tried to stay in one place. Gripping her hips, his fingers biting into her flesh, he thrust again but gained barely any ground. This was ridiculous. He adjusted his angle, bracing against the floor for leverage. 

It was like trying to stab someone with an apple.

The men hooted and yelled. Caesar called out, "If you're tiring, Inculta, Lanius can replace you. You could alternate. Fuck her in shifts." He laughed.

“Oh, no. No. Do it. Do it quickly,” she muttered, her eyes a plea to him, a note of panic dancing on the ragged edge of her words. 

She turned her face away, but not before he’d seen the way her eyes had darkened in fear and, a wicked thrill rising within him at the sight, he brutally shoved into her, finally advancing as she squealed in agony.

Surely this act should not be so difficult for him to achieve and so painful for her to experience. Perhaps her muscles had tightened in spasm. He straightened and glanced down, not even sure what he was checking. Along with the glossy slick that should be present, that marked her arousal, dripped the unequivocal mark of harm. 

Bright red blood. 

Blood on him. Blood on her. Blood smeared along her inner thighs. Blood on the bedroll. 

A virgin. And he had claimed her. She was _his._ A surge of possessive triumph burned through him. He continued to push, invade, inexorably open her up. 

Her fists clenched the bedroll, her nails tore at its fabric, but her hips moved with him, trying to help his progress.

“Scream my name,” he said, unsure if he meant the command for their audience or just for her. 

She did. 

With a savage groan, he sheathed himself deep inside her body.

At the same time, a remote, horrified part of his brain roared at him to stop. 

_How could she not have said?_

He could guess why. The same reason he could not stop. The lesson must proceed and he must be her tormentor, because—unlike Lanius—he would do everything he could to curtail the damage she suffered.

If only he didn’t enjoy that damage so much.

His sexual responses were twisted—some even by Legion standards. He knew that. But this barbaric, visceral arousal at what he was doing to her, this served to confirm his sickest unspoken belief about himself—that no distinction existed between the profligates and him. 

Certainly not any more.

Caesar would have an excuse—an explanation, rather—as to why his actions here today were honorable while the same crime— _not a crime_ — _the Legion had punishments and lessons, they never committed crimes_ —the exact same actions committed by a profligate were proof of a degenerate nature.

But this performance, this rape and denigration of an estimable ally, was nothing if not a dishonorable act. There was no lesson to be learned here, other than that meritorious service would be betrayed. All to support Caesar’s bedrock belief that women were inferior and to be used for labor and sex. And that sex should be wielded as a weapon of war, rape relished as a spectator sport.

His Courier was suffering because of the lechery of degenerate minds.

Including his own.

She was going to wear his bruises at her hips. She was going to feel him for days after. It was wrong. And still he couldn’t help wanting her this way. 

Pride and self-recrimination drummed alternate cadences in his mind.

Courier moaned softly. She wasn’t enjoying it, but at least she wasn’t crying anymore.

The men below laughed and cheered but they had practically slipped from his notice, his entire focus being on the woman beneath him. 

She was so tight. She felt marvelous. He told her so. He whispered how good she was, how she was taking him apart. He might never get the chance to tell her again. 

Although maybe she didn’t want to hear that. 

Switching to encourage her with words of admiration for her spirit, not her body, he found himself unable to stop, whispering—no, _babbling_ —sentiments too newly acquired not to pierce him with shame at his vulnerability when he said them aloud. 

He switched to Latin to protect himself. “ _Te amo magis quam vita. Sincere spero non intellexerunt._ ”

Caesar didn’t know what he had in this girl. By Mars, if she were his… between them, their skill sets, they could rule the Mojave.

If she were his.

He came hard, toes curling into the stage, excruciating pleasure radiating through his flesh, the lights of New Vegas exploding in his mind… and he shouted her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translations:
> 
> Paenitet me, amata = I'm sorry, my love
> 
> Fortior es quam ullus homo hic = You're stronger than any man here.
> 
> Te amo magis quam vita. Sincere spero non intellexerunt = I love you more than life. I sincerely hope you didn't understand that. (Since he doesn't want her to know. And she doesn't, because she didn't.)


	6. Chapter 6

Vulpes was very heavy. Nothing but muscle on his wiry frame. His boneless weight crushed Courier into the thin bedroll and unyielding table, making it difficult for her to breathe. 

They were done now, right? He could get off her. Any time. Get off. GET OFF. 

_GETOFFGETOFFGETOFF._

Distantly she could hear cheering and clapping and shouts. Someone… Caesar. It was Caesar, nearby on the stage, proclaiming things in Latin. 

She caught Vulpes’ name in one of Caesar’s sentences.

Vulpes shifted on top of her with a quiet grunt, then pushed himself up and back, regaining his feet. 

Completely unconcerned by his exposed dishabille, he strode—agile, confident strides—to Caesar’s side. Caesar took his near arm and held it up, above his head, the champion victorious. Waves of applause rose from the audience below, crested with cheers. 

Courier lay motionless. Clearly Vulpes had removed himself from her. He was _over there,_ for pity’s sake. Yet she ached and felt tensely, dreadfully stretched, like he was still inside her. 

Fighting down the urge to curl into a fetal position, she forced herself to breathe by tiny degrees, trying not to let her body move at all. Prey playing dead, hoping the predator will forget about her. 

She stared up at the bleak, cloudless sky as the crowd’s accolades gradually began to fade. The Praetorians behind the stage started to noisily talk amongst themselves and slosh liquid about, as they had done before this ordeal began. The performance was apparently officially over.

The wooden platform creaked. Her body flinched at the sound alone, an automatic response she couldn’t prevent, before she even consciously realized it meant Caesar and Vulpes were moving. 

“Leave her, Vulpes,” said Caesar. “Don’t bother yourself. Slave girls can deal with that profligate slut.” Caesar snapped his fingers several times in quick succession and when he next spoke his voice had changed from camaraderie to sharp command. “You two! Take this dirty whore to the slave tents.” 

“We have left the woman broken and bloody, just as we will leave the NCR,” announced Lanius, his deep, booming voice coming from somewhere over by the laughing Praetorians. Much as she wanted to question his use of the word ‘we,’ her desire to be left alone won out. “She is forsaken. They will all be food for vultures.”

“A perfect lesson,” Caesar continued, and she imagined the thump she heard was him clapping Vulpes on the back. “You did well. Come feast in my tent.” Footsteps receded, but she could still hear Caesar saying, “I may reserve her for breeding stock, as you suggested. Looks like the little harlot gives an entertaining ride.”

Hearing that scenario should have filled her with despair, but she wasn’t home to any emotion right now. Her body hurt, but her mind was numb. 

Female hands, gentle touches which she shrank from nonetheless, helped her sit up, then stand. Not seeing the remnants of her slave shift anywhere, Courier grabbed the bedroll and made the women wait while she laboriously wrapped it about her body. The men had gotten enough of a show. She wasn’t walking through camp naked.

Annoyed and impatient, the women took her arms as soon as she was done and helped her walk. Courier supposed there wasn’t much use for modesty here. It was a weakness the legionaries could exploit. 

After leaning heavily on their help to navigate the steps, Courier and the slave women shambled past the Praetorians, who shouted misogynistic slurs at them. Unimaginative. Predictable. But nonetheless it was a relief to achieve the less populated hill path, though they trudged down it so slowly Courier felt she should apologize to the women every few steps. Her legs could not move without pain. Every muscle in her body felt sore and stiff. 

“I should have gone with throwing myself off the stage. Quicker, and quite possibly more pleasant,” she murmured lightly. The women didn’t laugh. 

They might not have understood her, but, admittedly, it wasn’t that funny. Few things were funny in Caesar’s Legion. If only there were a way to keep the safety and the law, but interject some equality and, well, _basic humanity_ into this organization.

By the time they were limping through the rows of tents that ringed the hill, Courier hurt so much she just wanted to lie down. How much farther were the slave tents? What would they be like? Would it be safe to let down her guard and cry? She couldn’t process any emotion yet, but she knew from past experience it would be coming.

Maybe she could find Siri there. Much as she wanted to be left alone, she also felt terribly lonely and wanted someone to talk to, someone to tell her she wasn’t a forsaken piece of vulture meat. 

No matter how much she felt like she was.

Quick steps caught up and passed them. “Stop.” The order was hissed, but not breathless. 

Vulpes appeared, blocking their way. His uniform was back in place and he looked pristine despite having run down the hill in the heat and the sun. Not to mention the whole rape performance. Ice in his veins, that one. 

“You will bring her to my tent,” he commanded. 

Hope fluttered in her chest. Stupid. Idiotic. Undying hope. All because he’d come for her. Even though Caesar warned him off. He’d come for her.

“You’re like a knight from _Taeles of Chivalrie_." Raised above a murmur, her voice consisted of raspy croaks. Was that from all the screaming? She sounded horrible.

"My tent," Vulpes repeated emphatically, before speaking to Courier, bending to look into her eyes. "I will fetch healing powder, fresh water, and towels. You will feel better soon." He lowered his voice. "I will also fetch Siri. I imagine at this point you would find my touch repulsive."


	7. Chapter 7

Sweating and miserable, but unwilling to unwrap the bedroll from her body, Courier sat on Vulpes’ cot. He was wringing out a washcloth in a basin of water. All was quiet in his tent but for the splash and drip as he worked.

She had decided not to bother Siri. Her excuse had been that she didn’t want to take the slave doctor away from those who needed her services more. 

Who was she kidding? She wanted Vulpes to reassure her that she was still… worth something in his eyes.

At this point she seriously wondered what he’d have to do to make her find him repulsive.

“What’s that for?” she asked, nodding toward the washcloth as he turned toward her.

“You bled.” 

“Figured.” Her voice still sounded rusty, despite Vulpes having plied her with cups of sweet coffee and brahmin milk to ward off shock.

“Lie back.” He gestured with the washcloth. 

“You can just give that to me. I don’t need help.”

“Possibly not. But mine is the better vantage point to observe your injuries. Lie back. Rest your feet flat on the cot. Knees apart.” When she hesitated, he added, “I’ve already seen it all.”

 _Nice way of putting it_. “You’re a real bastard. You know that?” Irrationally, she suddenly wanted to cry. Instead, she dropped the bedroll from her body and shuffled herself into position. At least she felt a little cooler this way.

He moved to the foot of the cot, where he had placed a low chair. “Open your legs wider.” The hand not holding the washcloth tapped her knee. “Open.”

She covered her eyes with her arm, but let her knees fall outward.

At the first contact of the wet cloth, she flinched violently. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t cold. But her reaction wasn’t something she could control. 

Neither of them said anything. 

He tried again, dabbing at her flesh even more delicately. “You may, understandably, not believe this. But I did try to hurt you no more than necessary.”

“Whatever.”

He continued washing her. Inner lips first. Invasive. Intimate. But such light touches. She wouldn’t have guessed him capable of being so gentle. 

She snuck a glance at him. Why did he always have to look sexy? Dark eyebrows knit, all his intense attention concentrated on her…. Her skin prickled as a shiver zipped up her spine. She hid her eyes in the crook of her arm again.

She heard the chair creak as he stood. Footsteps. The water in the basin sloshed. 

“You never said you were a virgin.”

“I’m fine.” 

“Of course. But if you had said—”

“It’s no big deal.”

“My understanding of profligate culture, based on the prices for virgins at Gomorrah, is that virginity is considered a very ‘big deal’.”

“Whatever.” 

“For your first experience to be traumatic—”

She snorted. “You think I’d break that easily? I’m a soldier, same as you.”

“No.” A small exhale, almost a sigh. “You're not.”

“You know what I mean. We fight. We get hurt. Whatever.”

More footsteps, and the chair shifted. He had returned to his seat. The cloth tenderly stroked her inner thighs, cleaning the left, then the right. “You are an ally, and you were treated as a whore. I regret….”

“You regret my being a woman? Yeah, me, too.”

“I regret causing you pain. I regret Caesar breaking his oath to you. This is not what the Legion represents.”

“Ha! Oh, no, this is _precisely_ what the Legion represents.”

He didn’t answer.

A nervous slave girl entered his tent carrying a poultice Siri had sent over. She left hurriedly, silent as she arrived, never having met his eyes. Not even when he told her to give Siri his thanks.

“Does everyone fear you?”

“Those with any sense, yes.” He began applying the thick paste to the bruises about Courier’s hips and waist. It felt moist and cool, and smelled nice, which reminded her that she… probably didn't. Sex and sweat and _ugh_ how could he bear to even look at her.

“I must look disgusting,” she muttered, not expecting an answer. How could it be otherwise?

“You don’t.”

“I feel disgusting.”

“You aren’t.”

“I’m a dirty whore.”

“No.”

“You said—“

“I said you were treated as one.”

“Caesar and Lanius called me—“

“Words meant to wrest from me my affection for you. A crude ploy. Obvious and ineffectual. No weapons exist that could pry that affection even from my cold, dead hands.”

“So you don’t think I’m….” Suddenly she hated herself. She was fishing for reassurance, for compliments. And she couldn’t even pick what word to use. _Slut. Whore. Dirty. Forsaken._

He waited. 

“Never mind.” She risked a peek at his face. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. For some reason that struck a chord of anger inside her. “You didn’t want me before I became a dirty Legion whore,” she continued. “So why I even care what you think—"

He interrupted, “Did you not hear the part about my affection for you?”

“What… what are you saying?” She propped herself up on her elbows.

“I am saying you have ripped my heart from my chest and I do not want it back.” 

“Oh.”

He sat there, between her thighs, and gazed directly into her eyes. “I wanted you. Always. But your welfare was more important than my want. You would have been safer with Caesar. Had he treated you as his Consort. He did not. Caesar… is not the leader he once was.” 

“I think it’s those headaches.”

Vulpes nodded. “He has strayed from Legion ideals more dramatically since they started. Now lie back.” His attention returned to her injuries. 

She lay down and concentrated on the feel of his fingers painting her with refreshingly cool paste in long, firm strokes, while a small voice frisked about her brain chanting, _I think he just said he loved me. I think he just said he loved me._

After he finished slathering the poultice over the bruises on her thighs, he told her to keep her legs apart for the medicine to set, then strode to the basin and used a pitcher of fresh water to wash his hands.

She was surprised when he returned to his seat. 

“You're not done?”

“I am not finished caring for you, no.” He started to reach toward her, then halted, hand hovering above her pussy, and his gaze snapped to hers. “Do you mind if I continue to touch you?”

“I gather this is something non-medicinal?”

“No, it is medicinal. For your benefit.”

“Painful or not painful?”

“Pleasurable.”

“Okay.” She lay back and took a deep breath.

This time she barely twitched when he touched her. Gentle fingers explored and caressed her folds. It was nice. 

It also reminded her of a scouting mission—he displayed that same determination to map the area, learning where she was most sensitive, what kind of touches she liked. Another day she might have been embarrassed by the scrutiny, but now she just giggled to herself. 

It had been a long, strange day.

When two of his fingers slowly entered her, she flinched, although mostly with surprise. 

“What are you doing?” Her voice quavered, sounding more alarmed than she felt. Than she thought she felt. She had no idea what she was doing any more.

“Orgasm is necessary to relieve your pelvic congestion,” he replied calmly. “Your muscles will remain sore longer without it. If for no other reason than your medical health, you need release.”

He crooked his fingers and began to rub circles inside her, continuous, insistent circles on one particular spot of the upper wall of her channel. At the same time, he toyed lightly with her clit.

She gasped and shuddered. “Is that real science? I don't think that's real science. Medicine. Whatever.” She moaned softly, his touch doing all the right things to her. 

“I will stop if you wish it.” His fingers stilled. 

She immediately missed the sensation he’d been creating. “Oh okay.” She uttered a very fake long-suffering sigh. “If I _have_ to take advantage of your mad sex skills and have a fantastic orgasm, I suppose I will.”

“You do me great honor.” Despite her obvious joking, his response sounded entirely sincere.

With mock haughtiness she added, “It’s just for the sake of my health, you understand.”

“Of course.” Now there was a thread of humor in his tone. He was playing along with her. Nothing had changed. Caesar had failed.

Her pulse quickened. She felt giddy and bold. “Right, then. Pleasure me, Frumentarius sex slave.”

She heard the dry whisper of his rare chuckle. “Yes, my Lady.”


	8. Chapter 8

Vulpes continued rubbing and pressing circles into that one particular spot inside her while intermittently brushing her clit.

“With your muscles already in this state of excited tension, it should be fairly simple to trigger a release,” he said.

She gasped and whimpered quietly to herself, holding very still so as not to break his rhythm. Something was building inside her, like a storm off on the desert horizon, and she wanted to see it up close.

When direct touch became too much, he switched so that while one hand still rubbed, the thumb of his other hand strummed from left to right just above her clit, like she was a stringed instrument.

“Oh. My. God.” She groaned, her fingers digging into the cot. “You are insanely dexterous, you know that, right? Some days I choke myself just trying to eat and breathe at the same time.”

“If you try to eat and breathe—“

“ _ShutupyouknowwhatImeant_ ” She wanted to stretch her legs and clench her toes. “Sorry. Don’t actually shut up. Talk to me. Please.”

“Hmm?” He’d started focusing more on the upper right side from her clit, massaging with firm pressure. 

She groaned. “I love your voice. And…. when you say nice things to me. Like the words you said. Back…. During. Meant a lot. Made things better. Easier.”

“As intended.”

“Thanks.”

“Those words were merely the truth.”

“So tell me some more truths.” When he didn't immediately answer she said, “Sorry. Tell me some lies.”

“Lies are easier than truth. Safer. There is a nakedness to truth, a vulnerability to which I find it difficult to submit. But I will,” he added, the steady rhythm of his fingers continuing to drive her wild. “For you. _Carissima._ ” He made the final word a sinuous hiss. 

_Oh yes!_

“I enjoy the sight of you… so open to me. So trusting.”

Her hand nearest the cot’s edge scrabbled for the frame and gripped it hard.

“Your submission is delicious. As is watching you lose control.” 

Her thighs stretched and she moaned, quick, soft, urgent cries.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice somehow both sinful and encouraging. “That’s it. There you go. _Pulchra es. Pulcherrima._ You give it up so beautifully.”

Prickles and spangles danced over her body, like before a sneeze. His pace never faltered.

“Come for me, _amata_.”

_Ohyesohyes—Oh yes!_

Her sore muscles fluttered and clenched and the release felt wonderful. Intense and painful and exquisite and wonderful. She completely forgot how to breathe. 

He kept touching her until her brain shorted out and all she could do was wave him away while making inarticulate, giggling sounds.

Relaxing her head back against a pillow he brought her, a warm floaty feeling filling her body, she drifted while listening to him move about his tent.

“Will this cot hold both of us?” she asked hopefully. “To sleep, I mean?”

“It will not collapse. And we will both fit if I hold you close.”

“Hoooold me close,” she sang softly. “Nev-ver… No, wait. That’s not the tune. What am I singing?”

“I often wonder.”

“Ha. Shut up.” She rolled on her side as he climbed onto the cot with her. He wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her close. She sighed happily. “They used to call this ‘spooning.’ Isn’t that romantic?” 

“Because… I am the spoon and you are the food?”

“No, because we’re both spoons. Stacked on top of each other. That’s what you do with spoons you’re not using.”

“Those with a superfluity of spoons amass them in perpendicular stacks?” 

“Yes.”

“And even though we are oriented in a sideways—“

“Yes, okay. I get it’s inaccurate. But the idea is that we fit together. Closely. Like, we’re made to be together.”

“I believe I read something similar on a mission once. _Amata animae meae._ Beloved of my soul. Soul mate.” 

“Right, you win. Most romantic.” She rested her arms on top of his. “You kept that side of yourself deeply hidden from Caesar and friends.”

“I kept it deeply hidden from myself.”

After a few moments of quiet, she pushed back against his chest so he’d hold her tighter. “Guess what I’m thinking about now.”

His arms locked about her and he nuzzled her hair. “The best way to assassinate Caesar without alerting Lucius?” 

“Oh my god, we _are_ made for each other. Although I was more worried about Lanius.”

“When Caesar dies, the Legion will be ruled by Lanius, true. But he is rarely present in Caesar’s tent. Lucius is. And we may need Lucius on our side.”

“Oh? My revenge plan hadn’t got that far yet.”

“Lucius is third in line to lead the Legion, and well aware that the Legatus, while not dim, is not equipped to rule. He is ferocious in battle, which serves the Legion well in conquest, but to rule an empire requires subtlety, and at least a passing interest in civic affairs. Lanius will make a poor leader.” Vulpes wrapped a leg around hers. “Lucius has agreed with me on this before. Were the Legatus to fall during the battle with the NCR, I do not believe Lucius would examine the circumstances too closely.”

“I don’t suppose we could get the Boomers to drop their bomb on Lanius—‘accidentally’—when we take the Dam?” she murmured sleepily. 

“Interesting suggestion.”

“Thanks. Although not subtle, I know.”

“Subtlety I can provide.”

“And fear.”

“And fear," he agreed. "Re-crafting our society to serve the common good in a more just manner for all, that will be down to you.”

“Oh, easy-peasy,” she drawled, her sarcasm softened by a yawn. “I’ll have that done by dinner.”

Vulpes nuzzled her hair some more. “Our takeover will be made considerably smoother if Lucius will agree to serve me as he served Caesar. The Praetorians adore him, and will fight for whomever he designates, to the last man. If he pledges them to us, no one would dare protest our leadership. Our coup could be relatively bloodless.”

The Courier started singing “ _coup, coup, ka-choo_ ” and something about a walrus before she drifted into unconsciousness.

Vulpes kissed her temple and let her sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Coup’ is pronounced ‘koo’ in English. The Courier is a Beatles fan. ;)
> 
> (Her vault apparently preserved more than just 1950s songs.)
> 
> I thought about tagging this Post-Orgasm Snuggling While Plotting Murder but that sounded so much darker than it somehow is.
> 
> There should be a third story in this series where our couple take over the Legion, but I don't know when I'll get to it, as I have a bunch of stuff waiting that I have to write for work (omg I am so poor it’s ridiculous), so I'm going to go ahead and mark the series complete. 
> 
> I think I telegraphed pretty well where this series is heading, anyway, right? So happy imagining! I love you all! :)


End file.
